Harry Potter and the Labyrinth
by questionablequotation
Summary: Nearly six years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter is once again pushed to the forefront of the struggle against evil...only this time, there's no prophecy foretelling the outcome, he has no idea who he's up against, and nobody is there to watch his back.
1. Takedowns

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Important Information**: This story is canon-compliant up to—**but not including**—the infamously-disappointing epilogue of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

**Harry Potter and the Labyrinth**

_20:44 (Local), May 2, 1945  
__Outskirts of Berlin, Germany_

Nobody else was fighting; there was no point. Everyone present knew that the outcome of the battle would depend entirely upon the outcome of the duel between the two opposing generals. As the duel wore on, it was slowly becoming painfully clear who the victor would be.

A quick peek out of the corner of his eye—any further distraction would spell ruin, in the face of his old friend's power and skill—confirmed that his ruse was working. Even his most devoted supporters had despair written all over their faces, as their fearless leader appeared to be tiring. He allowed the next incoming spell, a massively powerful explosion curse, to shatter his high-frequency shield, staggering backward as the low-frequency deflector just barely contained the remaining force of the blast. _Ah, yes, __yes, __go for it, __you soft-hearted fool__... _

Sensing that victory was suddenly within his grasp, his opponent followed up the explosion curse with a salvo of high-frequency stunning hexes.

_Yes!_

The tall blond wizard smiled inwardly, while outwardly schooling his expression to one of disbelief and panic. He had always been able to fool his old friend—now, his plan required that he act out one more scene...and then simply wait, for what could possibly be a very long time. It was a cunning scheme, and it would require every iota of his conviction, but it would work. It _had_ to work.

The fusillade of high-frequency stunners blew through the already-overtaxed low-frequency shield. A rousing cheer went up on one side of the field, while scores of wizards on the other side began to flee or toss down their wands in surrender. Albus Dumbledore took no notice; he simply lowered his smoking wand and looked at the fallen figure before him, knowing that it was only his old friend's exhaustion from a previous battle earlier that day which had allowed him to carry the day; he could conceive of no other explanation for the defeat in battle of the wielder of that wand.

He strode forward and bent down to pick up the long, smooth stick, rolling it between his fingers to examine its surface. It was ancient, it even _felt_ ancient, but the surface of the dark gray wood was completely unmarred. Dumbledore didn't quite have Garrick's vast knowledge of wandlore, but even he could feel the dark power thrumming through this wand..._his_ wand, now. Slipping it into his sleeve, he turned his attention back to his defeated opponent, tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

"How did we ever come to this?"

* * *

_02:08 (Local), October 20, 2004  
__Curtain Wall of Peel Castle, Isle of Man, UK_

"Shite!"

Harry Potter looked back just in time to see Auror John Dawlish get tackled by a large glashtyn (a distant cousin of the kelpie, and only found on the Isle of Man) in its natural form. While glashtyns were shapeshifters, they usually only did that to try to seduce human women; in a fight, the semi-aquatic creatures almost always returned to their powerful bull-like forms. This one was currently grappling with Dawlish and trying to gore him in the face with its long, curved horns. _Goddammit __Dawlish,__ we don't have time for this!_

"Whitby, give him a hand!" Harry shouted, barely making himself heard over the sound of the rain. This was Auror Trainee Kevin Whitby's first field assignment, but Harry knew that the younger man—who had been sorted into Hufflepuff in Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts—had been a part of the resistance during the Lost School Year (as many Hogwarts alumni referred to the 1997-1998 academic year), and could handle himself at least as well as Dawlish. On the other hand, Dawlish—despite his quick wand—had an unfortunate susceptibility to confounding and memory-altering spells and a frustrating tendency to follow orders to the letter, without ever taking any initiative. "I'll go on alone!"

Whitby instantly complied, turning back to engage the glashtyn. Harry continued onward along the top of the curving curtain wall, knowing that he would be alone from here on out, as the other two would have their hands full for a while; if there was one glashtyn in a fighting mood, there would soon be dozens, especially at this time of year. _That's probably why Dolohov fled here, __the clever bastard__._

Ivan Dolohov, the son of the long-dead Antonin Dolohov by way of the much-longer-dead Ilene Mulciber, had learned dark magic at the hand of his late father and—Harry suspected, based on the skill with which Ivan was throwing around some fairly terrible dark magic—Tom Riddle himself. Antonin and Tom had been allies, if not quite friends, since their time at Hogwarts together; Dolohov, Rosier, Nott, Avery, and the Mulciber twins had formed Voldemort's original inner circle, and were the only Death Eaters who had known his true name. When Voldemort was first rising to power, he had been charismatic, handsome, and brilliant, teaching his loyal followers some of the dark magic that he had learned; it was only later, once he had truly come to power, that Tom Riddle became paranoid and began to guard his knowledge jealously. Thus, many of his earlier followers (and, if they had children quickly enough, their children) were much more knowledgeable and powerful than the sycophantic weaklings that had taken the Dark Mark later, once Voldemort no longer had a direct hand in training the Death Eaters.

As evidenced by the gruesome nature of the recent string of murders—some ritualistic, some clearly just for the good old-fashioned joy of killing—and the extremely dark spells that had been flung at Harry's strike team since the beginning of the running fight nearly a day and a half ago, Ivan Dolohov was a member (and, in fact, likely the last such member) of that dark legacy. Though the Dolohov family had dabbled in the dark arts for generations, no scion of their line had ever quite checked all the boxes to claim the title of Dark Lord. Ivan had the ambition, the experience, the knowledge, and maybe even the power, at least at the lower end of the Dark Lord scale...but not quite the charisma or the followers. Nevertheless, he was a murderer dozens of times over, and Harry had drawn the assignment—straight from the Minister's office, no less—to track him down. Shacklebolt had simply handed Harry a Gray Warrant for Ivan Dolohov, wished him luck, and sent him on his way. Dolohov could be taken in either dead or alive, but Shacklebolt's preference was clear, and Harry had to agree; it was likely that only pureblood politics had prevented Shacklebolt from issuing a Black Warrant straight away. Some of the darkest and richest of the remnants of the traditional pureblood faction had probably argued in favor of a White Warrant, but even then only on principle (for the sake of opposing the moderates, that is); in reality, they probably wanted Dolohov dead as much as or more than everyone else, as their businesses tended to run more smoothly without a maniac running around and killing people.

Harry was hard-pressed to keep up with the taller Dolohov as he sprinted along the curtain wall, especially since Dolohov kept trying to...discourage...pursuit. Two disarmed runic traps (each of which would have literally turned Harry inside-out while simultaneously disintegrating his lungs), five vanished clouds of corrosive and explosive aerosolized potions, and four dodged Killing Curse potshots later, Harry was becoming well and truly irritated at this particular dark wizard, who apparently knew that this was the endgame and was now playing for keeps. Every spell, potion, ward, trap, and even melee attack from here on out would be employed with lethal intent. Then again, if Harry didn't catch up soon, the point would be moot.

October on the Isle of Man was a wet, miserable month, and being there at two in the morning made things much worse. Through the freezing-cold rain, Harry could barely make out Dolohov's form as it darted toward the keep. _Fuck. _If Dolohov made it to the actual castle, it would be a hell of a time rooting him out. The anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards laid down by the support team would keep Dolohov from escaping outright, but it would be almost suicidally dangerous to chase a skilled dark wizard through a defensible fortress. Dolohov was already too far away, and moving too fast. There was only one thing for it, then.

Most Aurors and Hit-Wizards carried two wands: a primary (usually the one that had "chosen" them when they were eleven years old) and a back-up. Harry, though, carried four: his old and faithful holly and phoenix feather wand (which he preferred for its versatility and finesse), the yew and phoenix feather wand (which he used for spells requiring a bit more raw power) he had won from Tom Riddle at the Battle of Hogwarts, the hawthorn and unicorn hair wand (a rather well-balanced back-up) he had won from Draco Malfoy in his escape from Malfoy Manor, and...the _other wand. _The long, dark-gray wand he had won from Draco without even realizing it at the time. The Elder Wand.

Harry rarely used the Elder Wand. He had originally intended to set it aside entirely...until three years ago, when he had found himself alone and pinned down by four Death Eaters who had escaped from captivity during the transfer of all prisoners to Nurmengard (which did not rely upon the unacceptably-fickle dementors for security and punishment, and had stood empty since Voldemort murdered Grindelwald in his cell in 1998). Then, in desperation, he had drawn the Elder Wand...and blown all four escaped convicts to shreds with one spell. Now, he found himself using it in situations that required more power or range than he could channel through any of his other wands.

Harry sighted carefully down the length of the smooth wood. He could feel the dark appetite of the wand as it thrummed in his hand, almost growling with anticipation; the Elder Wand practically cried out to be used to destroy, to ruin...to take lives. Almost reluctantly, Harry was about to oblige it.

"_Telum lux!" _Harry intoned. The sound of his voice was entirely lost in the roar of the downpour, and a bolt of brilliant white energy—moving so fast that it blurred into a laser-like beam—lit up the night. Some of the light diffracted and reflected off of the falling rain, and for a brief instant the dreary old castle looked almost like a disco hall from the 1970's. Nearly a hundred yards away, Dolohov's sprinting form stumbled and fell into two halves; in the fading light from the spell, Harry could see steam rising from the neatly-cauterized wounds that separated the halves of what had been the other wizard's back.

Harry felt a sort of grim satisfaction emanating from the Wand, and hastily slid it back into its holster, not wanting to indulge in the same feeling himself. It was hard not to, though; he had done alone and in an instant (albeit an instant hard-earned after a 36-hour chase) what a dozen other Auror strike/support teams had failed to do over the last six years. Ivan Dolohov, a would-be Dark Lord and the only son of Antonin Dolohov, was dead by Harry's hand, long before his ambitions would ever be realized.

* * *

_07:56 (Local), October 20, 2004  
__Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK_

"You've got to be kidding me! I just spent four and a half bloody hours filling out all that paperwork!"

"Sorry, sir," the clerk said, clearly not sorry at all...or, at least, not sorry enough. "The Senior Undersecretary requested your presence at the debriefing personally."

Head Auror Harry Potter was not impressed. "Is Percy aware that I spent thirty-six hours chasing a dark wizard across the entire bloody country in the middle of a bloody monsoon, and then another four and a half hours sitting here filling out all the bloody paperwork that he mandated for any Gray Warrant takedown? Is he aware that I'm so exhausted that I may have trouble distinguishing friend from foe, and that I'm so keyed up on Pepper-Up Potion that I might just do something about it?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the bureaucrat repeated nervously, backing toward the door. "You have to be there. The meeting starts in five minutes."

With that, the Junior Assistant to the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic (as the young intern had pompously introduced himself a few minutes before) fled from Harry's office toward the elevators down the hall. Harry could hear snickers and a bit of outright laughter from the bullpen, and maybe even the muted clinks of coins exchanging hands. He was glad that the troops were having a decent time, at least; he, on the other hand, was the next closest thing to miserable. _Why the hell did I ever agree to take this bloody job?_

"Where are you going, boss?" Whitby called from the bullpen as Harry stalked from his office. Harry grinned, smelling another bet in the offing, and let the question hang for a few moments.

"I'm going to have a chat with an old friend," Harry drawled, deliberately _not_ turning around (it simply wouldn't do for him, as their superior officer, to see the wagers they had lined up). Shacklebolt had been an Auror, he knew how things were—he'd be able to rein in Percy, and then Harry would get to go home and finally, _finally _get some sleep. "Looks like I gotta go see a man about a weasel."

The laughter followed him out to the elevator, and this time, he could definitely hear the clinks of coins.

Two minutes later, after a brief, expletive-filled word with a rapidly-conciliatory Kingsley Shacklebolt—the Minister of Magic, and more importantly, Percy Bloody Weasley's boss—and a quick bit of Floo travel, Harry staggered into his flat and collapsed onto his sofa. Exhausted from a hard few days and emotionally wrung-out from a rather Black takedown on a Gray Warrant, he fell asleep before he even took his boots off.

* * *

**Author's Note**

As of 9/9/2014, I've edited the title of this story to "Harry Potter and the Labyrinth." This story has seen fairly poor view numbers, and I suspect that the shitty title may have been partly to blame (in addition to people being reluctant to start reading an in-progress story).

Please review and let me know if you like where this is going.


	2. Confrontations

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Important Information**: This story is canon-compliant up to—**but not including**—the infamously-disappointing epilogue of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

**Harry Potter and the Labyrinth**

_08:34 (Local), May 3, 1945  
__Somewhere in the Austrian Alps_

The sun sparkled off snow and ice, throwing a glittering array of light into the crisp, cool air. The spring thaw was just beginning; soon, these mountains would host a veritable river of snow-melt, and life would begin to sprout all over again.

In the midst of this sparkling renewal, Albus Dumbledore's grim countenance stood out. The stone-faced wizard cast one final greater ward, sealing off the entrance to the dark cave. Apparently, it had been setting off the detection monitors for some time now, but every single unit dispatched to investigate had failed to return. Only now, armed with the Elder Wand, had Dumbledore finally been able to definitively locate and lock down the disturbance. He did not have it within himself to investigate further, knowing that whatever was to be found inside would only tear at his heart; he could not bear to see what twisted workings had been wrought by the dark madness of his old friend's once-brilliant mind.

All that remained was to eradicate any records of this place—an easy task, given the chaos of the war's end—and render it unplottable, and it would hopefully lay undisturbed forever.

* * *

_17:31 (Local), October 24, 2004  
__Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK_

"Sir?" Whitby called from the half-open doorway into Harry's office. Harry looked up, his attention drawn more by Whitby's nervous tone than the interruption. Whitby, who must have just come on for the second shift, was never this uneasy around Harry, especially since the Dolohov takedown a few nights previous...which must mean that he was delivering bad news, and he wasn't sure how Harry would take it. It was the tone that Whitby used when he spoke to Head Auror Potter, rather than to "just Harry."

"What's up, Kevin?" Harry asked genially, trying to get the younger man to go back to seeing him as his field partner, rather than his commanding officer—it made talking to him easier. _Come to think of it, it's a lot like an interrogation._ "Come on in. Everything good?"

"Well, sir..." Whitby started. _Damn, __it __didn't work. _"There's some pencil-pusher on his way here. I only know because I heard the Senior Undersecretary giving him directions in the Atrium."

_Shit. No wonder the kid is worried. _Anyone coming via Percy was pretty much guaranteed to ruin Harry's day, especially considering the fact that Harry had already put in an extra half hour and was desperately looking forward to getting out of the office; rather than his typical "get home and pass out" routine, he had been invited to dinner at Hogwarts by Hermione and Neville, both of whom he hadn't seen for several months. Meeting up for dinner with the surviving members of the DA one week before Halloween was a bit of a tradition that they had started in October of 1999, when Harry had taken the night off from the Academy to see Hermione and the rest of his friends back at Hogwarts. Whitby knew that Harry was anxious to get out of the office, and also knew that Harry's intense irritation at any delay would inevitably trickle down to his subordinates who would have to put up with his moodiness. Some of the people who knew him well had said that he'd gotten better about it since his infamously temperamental fifth year at Hogwarts...but not by much. Even in the few short months since Whitby had graduated the academy and been assigned to Auror Headquarters, he had seen some epic-level losses of temper from the Head Auror.

"Thanks, Kevin," Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and finding that he was badly in need of a good shave. Probably not the best first impression for whatever self-important bureaucrat Percy had sent his way, but then again, Harry didn't really care. "Go ahead and get back to the bullpen. You're with Toes tonight. Don't let him trick you into buying him any meals if you end up on a stakeout, he tries that with all the rookies."

Whitby scampered off, excited about the prospect of working with someone other than Dawlish. Harry didn't blame him; Danny "Toes" Proudfoot was more fun to be around on his worst day than John Dawlish was on his best, and he was also the third squad's resident forensic specialist, so Whitby would get to learn a few cool tricks, too. Harry liked to make sure that the rookies got some experience with each specialty, so that if a squad was a man down, any given Auror could potentially fill the open slot with some degree of competence. It was one of the many simple but extremely helpful changes he had made to the training rotation as soon as he had taken the Head Auror position.

"Hello in there!" a nasal, heavily-German-accented but still somehow mechanically-precise voice yodeled—not said, not called, but literally somehow yodeled. Harry hadn't realized that it was possible for a yodel to sound like it had been measured out by an automaton, but this guy somehow managed it. _This is going to be a bloody nightmare._ "Is this Head Auror Potter's office?"

Then again, perhaps Whitby's rapid departure had also been influenced by noticing the "visitor" walking towards Harry's office, and not wanting anything to do with the inevitable fireworks.

"That's what it says on the door, Fritz," Harry gritted out, suppressing a groan. He already had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, reminding him distinctly of Halloween in his fourth year at Hogwarts—specifically, when the Goblet of Fire blazed scarlet for the fourth time, just Dumbledore called his name. "In big, bold letters."

The door opened all the way to reveal a tall, thin, blond-haired, blue-eyed walking stereotype. The man—who looked to be roughly thirty years of age—looked like he had walked straight out of a recruiting poster for the Luftwaffe. His uniform robes were immaculate, his hair was tidy, and his assorted pins, patches, and designations made him look all kinds of official. In short, he looked every bit the bureaucrat that Harry had expected. _I bet old Percy needed a change of underwear as soon as he saw this fruitcake._

"I do not understand," the man said, in perfectly meticulous—though still heavily-accented—English. "I think you must be mistaken. You see, my name is Franz, not Fritz." _Trust a bloody German to not get a joke._ "I am Franz Huber, Chefunterstaatssekretär für die Kanzler von Zauberkunst, from ze Austrian—" _Eh, Austrian, German, close enough, really._ "—Ministry of Magic. I have come on behalf of my government to make you a proposition, Head Auror Potter, and you come highly recommended from my counterpart in your government, Senior Undersecretary Percival Weasley. I trust zat you are familiar with him and his work."

Harry grunted, before refining his reply—it couldn't hurt to at least _try _to be polite; maybe that would speed things up and get this ponce out of his office faster. "What's your proposition, Herr Huber?" He didn't quite manage to keep the impatience out of his tone—after all, he _really_ wanted to get out of the office for the day—and even the apparently-socially-retarded not-quite-German picked up on it.

"Ah, I see zat you are in a hurry," Franz observed, his tone still flat and impersonal. "I shall endeavor to be efficient, then." Harry barely suppressed a snort, having trouble imagining this ridiculous pencil-pusher being anything _but_ the picture of efficiency. "You see, quite recently, there has been an uptick in chatter from certain...darker elements...of ze wizarding communities of continental Europe, especially in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and western Russia. In particular, there is an area in ze mountains of North Tyrol zat has apparently been steadily increasing in magical activity—on frequencies exceeding our capability to monitor, no less—for ze last several years."

"The last several years?" Harry asked, incredulous. "Why are you just starting to notice this now? More importantly, I don't see what any of this has to do with me."

"I shall arrive at that information shortly, Head Auror Potter," Franz said sternly. "Ze answer to your query is zat ze area in question has been...disavowed, for lack of a better term...by all of ze neighboring magical governments, ever since ze fall of Grindelwald. Nobody can seem to find any record of _why_ zat is ze case. For ze last sixty years, each individual government has simply been operating under ze belief that one of ze others owned—and therefore vas responsible for monitoring—zat area. During a recent conference, ze topic came up, and it became clear zat none of ze relevant magical governments had any clue vat vas happening there."

"Still not seeing how this involves me," Harry said flatly, though the bad feeling was spreading from the pit of his stomach to his spine. He had an inkling of how this might go, and he didn't like it.

"Vell, you see, once it became clear that ze area had been essentially lawless for six decades, an international task force vas set up to investigate ze area," Franz continued. "Unfortunately, each team zat vas sent to investigate...has not returned. It has been decided zat in the spirit of international magical cooperation, you shall—"

"Let me stop you right fucking there, mate," Harry snapped, already well beyond mere irritation and moving rapidly towards incandescent rage. Someone was trying to rope him into some political bullshit, and he wanted nothing to do with it. "I don't know if you've realized this, but I happen to be an Auror for the _British_ Ministry of Magic—my jurisdiction only includes the UK and, to a lesser extent, the Commonwealth nations. I have no authority in Austria, and more importantly for this discussion, the Austrian Ministry of Magic has no authority over _me. _I don't know or care who decided what, but the only thing I _shall_ do, is what I'm ordered to do by the Director of the DMLE or the Minister of Magic. Percy Weasley only has the authority to make staff decisions, and this is clearly operational, and he's not in my direct chain of command anyway. We've got plenty of problems of our own here in Britain, I don't have time to be your goddamn spell-fodder for the sake of some publicity stunt."

This was clearly not what Franz was hoping to hear. As far as the Austrian bureaucrat was concerned, Harry Potter was signed, sealed, and delivered from the moment Percy pointed Franz to his office. "But Head Auror Potter," he stammered, "you see, ze Austrian Ministry of Magic has invested me with ze power to compel you—"

_That _finally crossed the line. Harry Potter had spent the better part of his life being ordered about by people with (at least nominal) authority over him, from the Dursleys, to Dumbledore, to the Ministry...but he drew the line when people who had _no standing _to dictate his actions started trying to impose their will upon him. Harry thought it was one of the reasons he had always been able to throw off the Imperius Curse so easily—when it came down to it, anyone trying to subvert his own will was in for a fight. Franz Huber was no exception.

Harry abruptly stood, somehow managing to avoid scattering papers and files all over the place. His wand was leveled directly between Franz's eyes before Harry even registered the fact that he had drawn it. Harry spoke, softly and slowly—almost as though he was channeling the late Severus Snape—and his tone (and the ominously-glowing tip of his wand) brooked no argument. The very air was literally distorting, in the manner of heat rising from scorching pavement, solely from the strength of the anger in Harry's words.

"Get out of my office," Harry snarled, not caring that Franz was getting more and more obviously terrified with each passing word. "Get the_ fuck _out of my office, and if you come back here saying that Percy _Fucking _Weasley or the Austrian _fucking _Ministry is giving you the power to compel me to do _anything_, you will find yourself in a dueling circle, and we will duel to kill. Have I made myself clear?"

Wide-eyed, pale, and gasping in fear, Franz Huber fled from Harry's office. A thunderous silence boomed from the bullpen, punctuated only by the Austrian's receding footfalls on the tiled floor and the suddenly-deafening ticking of the clock above the coffee mess. Slowly, the rest of the Aurors in the office began picking up their normal activity, pretending that nothing had happened—until Harry left, of course; then, the whole office would devolve into shameless gossip. Harry barely took notice; his eyes and full attention were riveted to the wand in his hand. Ever since he had begun carrying more than one wand, his quick-draw had always been his holly and phoenix feather wand. It was just reflex—as far as Harry was concerned, that was _his_ wand, and the others were just for special circumstances. Except...

...Except for this time. Now, he was staring at the smooth, dark gray wood of the Elder Wand.

* * *

_23:11 (Local), June 13, 1997  
__Astronomy Tower of Hogwarts, Scotland, UK_

"_Expelliarmus!" _

The headmaster's wand was pulled from his hand. Draco Malfoy—having never been a particularly good Seeker—failed to catch it out of mid-air, and it clattered to the stone floor.

Several very tense moments passed, while Harry Potter silently struggled against the headmaster's Full-Body Bind, until a green flash lit up the starless night. In an instant, Albus Dumbledore was no more, and the spell broke, freeing Harry to chase after the headmaster's murderer.

* * *

_18:33 (Local), October 24, 2004  
__Entrance Hall of Hogwarts, Scotland, UK_

Having looked at his ever-handy Marauder's Map, Harry already knew who was waiting for him inside. Therefore, he wasn't particularly surprised when a joyful chorus of "Harry's here!" assaulted his ears the instant he passed through the threshold. He was apparently the final one to arrive, as the whole group began to move toward the seventh floor once he joined them.

The rousing round of greetings took nearly ten minutes, by which time Harry—always a fairly incisive person, and now with instincts and a keen eye honed by Auror service—had already noticed something important about the group: despite their scars, lingering curse effects, and maimed bodies, every single person there had left the war behind. They were all professors, researchers, Quidditch players, journalists, farmers...the list went on and on, and despite the group's well-above-average Defense OWLs and NEWTs, Harry was the only person there who had turned fighting into his career; for him, the war had never really ended, it had only changed. That realization made his hand twitch...was that really all he was ever going to do? All he was ever going to _be?_

After that minor epiphany, the rest of the night—which Harry had been so looking forward to—seemed to drag on. Everyone was talking about their husbands, wives, children...their _families. _When the subject shifted to work and livelihoods, everyone dutifully took turns expressing awe at Harry's recent takedown of yet another would-be Dark Lord (many wondering aloud why the hell there were always so many in such a small country)...and then quickly moved on, unwilling to spend much more time on the topic of what had essentially been a cold-blooded execution. Apparently, Harry's life wasn't very well-suited to polite dinner conversation. The setting probably didn't help; they were holding their party in the Room of Requirement, which—much like Harry himself—served as a subtle reminder of the war they would rather forget.

Hermione, who had always been the most perceptive (if sometimes a bit socially awkward) of the group, did not take long to notice Harry's growing discomfort. Neville, always the most sensitive of the male Gryffindors, probably would have seen it as well, except that he was distracted by tending to the every whim of his very pregnant wife. Currently, he was rubbing Hannah's feet while simultaneously levitating chocolate-covered strawberries to her.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked quietly, as the party crowd began to separate into smaller groups. Her dark, intelligent eyes held no small amount of concern; she had only grown more astute from wheedling information out of her transfiguration students all day (having taken McGonagall's old teaching position, when McGonagall became the headmistress), and Harry knew that it was hopeless to try to hide what was bothering him...at least from Hermione, who knew him better than virtually anyone alive. "Out with it."

Harry sighed. He had always been reticent to spill the beans about anything that was troubling him, but the ever-increasing strain of simply being around a bunch of people who didn't want to think about him at all (piled on top of an already-bad day) had really gotten to him, and this was Hermione—if anyone could be trusted to be discreet, it was her.

"The people here," he began. "You can't tell me you don't see it, hear it, _feel _it. They look at me, and all they can think about is the war. They hear about me shooting down some rabid dark wizard, and they think it's all I'm really good for. As far as they're concerned, that's all I am...some dirty, dangerous killer who happens to be _their_ dirty, dangerous killer. And don't even get me started on work..."

Of course, having already gotten _himself _started on work, he quickly outlined the stress he had been under as Head Auror, as well as Percy Weasley's ever-increasing, always-irritating efforts to control him...including that afternoon's episode, which had almost left Franz Huber splattered all over Harry's office.

Hermione frowned, worry lines creasing her forehead. "It sounds to me like—"

"It sounds to me like you need a vacation, mate," a familiar voice interrupted cheerfully. "You ought to come to a few Quidditch matches, or visit a few beaches or something. You work yourself too bloody hard."

Ron, whom Harry had seen a few weeks previously at an England vs. Ireland Quidditch match, seemed fairly content; he had taken an offer from his beloved Chudley Cannons for a Keeper position after declining to take his NEWTs, to Hermione's irritation, and Harry's amusement. Harry was positive that not taking the NEWTs had been a major factor in Ron's and Hermione's inevitable and yet remarkably amicable breakup. He had confided to Harry that he would probably play for five or six more years, and then take Ludo Bagman's old position in the Ministry—Arthur had moved up several pegs after the war (ending up as the Director of the DMLE, based on his surprisingly impressive war record), and nepotism was alive and well; Harry had no doubt that the job was Ron's for the taking, especially considering his long-time association with the ever-famous Harry Potter—which aligned nicely with his and Lavender's family plans. They had gotten married about two years after the end of the war, and Harry had of course stood as Ron's best man; however, both knew that they were slowly drifting apart. They would always be lifelong friends, but adulthood had put strenuous demands on both of them, and they had little time to spend together.

"Ronald, language!" Hermione scolded automatically. Ron rolled his eyes, winked at Harry, and then scurried off at his wife's sudden call from across the room. It suddenly struck Harry that each husband at the party was constantly being dragged around by his wife, and he had to work to suppress a chuckle—after all, he and Hermione were having a fairly serious discussion.

Hermione, though, was not so easily distracted. "As I was saying, Harry, I have definitely noticed some things about you recently, and it seems like this latest incident is the next step."

"Hmm?" Harry murmured, arching his eyebrow.

"Losing your temper, Harry," she clarified. "When you lose your temper, it's a bit like being drunk—your inhibitions are lowered, and so you do what a more visceral, primal part of you wants to do. In this case, you drew your wand. And not just your wand...you drew _the _wand."

Part of Harry thought that she was reading too much into it—she had always been of the opinion that Harry should hide the Elder Wand and then _obliviate_ himself—but the rest of him remembered how shocked he had been that afternoon to find it in his hand, practically begging to be let loose against that idiotic—but otherwise innocent—bureaucrat. Harry had forced himself to take a detour to the Auror target range to let off some steam with the Elder Wand (the target dummies hadn't stood a chance, and the range attendant had been left gaping in awe at the destruction Harry had wrought), knowing that it wasn't a good idea for a powerful Auror with hair-trigger reflexes to walk around with that much rage bottled up inside.

"So?" Harry asked evenly, wondering where she was going with this.

"So?!" Hermione practically shrieked. "They call it the _Deathstick_ for a reason, Harry!" Luckily, Harry had silently cast a _muffliato _charm around them as soon as Ron had left; otherwise, the attention of the remaining partygoers would have been drawn instantly. It wasn't common knowledge that Harry possessed the Elder Wand (otherwise he'd be the target of constant assassination attempts—well, more than he already was), as Harry had systematically memory-charmed most of the witnesses to the final confrontation with Voldemort, simply editing their memories of the taunts and insults the two wizards had thrown at each other before casting. It had taken all night, several Pepper-Up Potions, and a great deal of assistance from the remaining Hogwarts house-elves, but by the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, only Ron and Hermione knew that he had the Elder Wand. Things were much safer that way.

"Yes, Hermione," Harry reiterated drily. "So?"

"So_,_" Hermione declared, "it is proof that the Elder Wand is dark, Harry. It is clearly affecting you...maybe it exacerbates whatever negative feelings you have, or something, almost like the locket horcrux. You have to get rid of it. Or tell Ollivander about it...he knows all there is to know about wands, so maybe he knows something about this."

"Ollivander didn't know anything in particular about the Elder Wand when Voldemort was torturing him for information, so he won't know anything now—he's just a guy who makes wands," Harry said, not mentioning that Ollivander had received a visit from Harry shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry had pumped the old wandmaker for information, and then promptly memory-charmed the conversation away. "Plus, Albus Dumbledore carried the Elder Wand for five decades, and he used it every single day without turning evil. I'm pretty sure that if it didn't corrupt him in that amount of time, it won't have corrupted me after a few years of extremely occasional use."

"I don't know about that, Harry," she responded slowly, clearly choosing her words carefully. "In the last few years...well, everyone has noticed it, even though only Ron and I know about the wand..."

"Spit it out, Hermione," Harry almost commanded.

"You've been getting...colder," Hermione replied, avoiding his eyes. "It seems like every time anyone sees you or talks to you, you're just coming back from killing some dark wizard or other. You don't really smile any more, you don't play even Quidditch any more—"

"Hermione," Harry said firmly, becoming quite irritated that his moderately-therapeutic conversation had been co-opted into yet another lecture about the Elder Wand turning him into an evil killing machine. "Look around at the DA, or at magical Britain as a whole—after the Battle of Hogwarts, they just decided that the war was over, and stopped fighting. 'War's over, everyone, time to live happily ever after!'" he mocked in a false happy voice, before turning serious again. "You know your history, Hermione; tell me, what happened after World War Two?"

"Well, obviously there was a great deal of rebuilding, exemplified by the United States with the Marshall Plan—"

"The Cold War, Hermione," Harry interrupted, knowing that if he gave her any chance at all, this would turn into an exhaustive history lesson about postwar economic policies or something; it would probably be enlightening (if boring), but he was trying to make a point, not learn something. "The Nazis were gone, and the other major nations had built up so much military power that they couldn't trust each other...so they fought shadow wars for almost five decades. Voldemort is gone, and now every bloody dark wizard in Europe with delusions of grandeur has decided that he's going to be the next Dark Lord. Who is going to stop them, Hermione? You? Those journalists and potion-brewers and healers and farmers standing over there, chatting about their kids and their new picket fences? The idiot Ministry, or the blissfully ignorant population? No, of course not—why bother, when you've all got a bloody Boy-Who-Lived with a bloody stupid "saving-people-thing" to fight it for you? You ever wonder why every significant takedown in the last several years seems to have been led by me? The war never ended, Hermione. _I'm just the only one __still __fighting it_."

Hermione was shocked into silence, a rare condition for her. She knew, intellectually, that there were still darker elements in the world, but—apparently like the rest of magical Britain—she had allowed herself to simply not think about them, almost instinctively preferring the protective comfort of pretending that once Voldemort was gone, all would be right with the world. But there Harry was, evidently using his Head Auror position to be practically a one-man Order of the Phoenix. It was a sobering thought; no wonder he had been so distant lately.

"It's a cold war, Hermione," Harry said flatly, standing up and dispelling the _muffliato _from earlier. The party was winding down, and Harry had an early start tomorrow morning. He hadn't meant for this conversation to turn into an argument—or an accusation, or whatever it had been—but now he was just tired and wanted to leave. "If I've gotten any _colder _myself, then it was just to level the bloody playing field."

With that, Harry strode from the Room of Requirement, not bothering to say any goodbyes. After all, he reasoned, nobody there really wanted to talk to him anyway.

* * *

_23:11 (GMT), June 13, 1997  
__Tower 11, Cell 38, Nurmengard Prison, Zugspitze Peak, Germany_

The ancient, skeletal prisoner felt a brief twinge, and he knew that one of his many hidden monitors must have been still functioning for all these years. That particular signal indicated that the Elder Wand had passed to a new master. That could mean only one thing: Albus Dumbledore—his old friend and the only wizard who could ever truly threaten him—was dead. Now, all he had to do was...keep waiting. It shouldn't be much longer.

* * *

**Author's Note**

As you've no doubt noticed by now, my astute reader, there will be flashbacks from time to time. You should also know that when I wrote that sentence, I laughed so hard that I almost choked to death on my popsicle. Hehe, puns. Love 'em.

"Chefunterstaatssekretär für die Kanzler von Zauberkunst" translates—via Google Translator (so if it's a shitty translation, try not to be too offended)—roughly to...predictably..."Chief Secretary for the Chancellor of Sorcery." Basically, he's Percy Weasley...except _German_ (well, almost). And did you notice how he speaks almost entirely in passive voice? Politician. Blegh.

The first chapter was sort of an introduction, hence its brevity. I think that most of the chapters will be roughly this length.

As of 9/9/2014, I've edited the title of this story to "Harry Potter and the Labyrinth." This story has seen fairly poor view numbers, and I suspect that the shitty title may have been partly to blame (in addition to people being reluctant to start reading an in-progress story).

Review!


	3. Assignments

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Important Information**: This story is canon-compliant up to—**but not including**—the infamously-disappointing epilogue of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

**Harry Potter and the Labyrinth**

_23:11 (GMT), June 13, 1997  
__Somewhere in the Austrian Alps_

A series of interlocking wards failed simultaneously, and the internal arcane energies locked into the bindings tore free with a spectacular earth-shaking explosion of swirling light and blazing sparks. All around the world, a rather limited printing run of maps suddenly blurred, and then resolved...with one added icon.

* * *

_08:05 (Local), October 25, 2004  
__Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK_

Harry knew something was up the moment he stepped off the elevator—the office was too quiet, too tense, too..._something_. A brief look toward the bullpen confirmed his suspicions; the third shift Aurors were still hanging around, whispering quietly to the first shift personnel who had just come in. A few sidelong glances toward Harry and some significant and not-very-subtle looks toward Harry's halfway-open office door—the door that Harry had locked on his way out the previous evening—told Harry that he was not going to like what he found inside.

His instincts and clever deductions were proven correct the moment he pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. Franz Huber, the Austrian pencil-pusher that Harry had nearly cursed the day before, was sitting in one of the two chairs against the side wall of the office, next to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Huber looked somewhat smug, like Malfoy whenever he managed to sic Snape on Harry; Kingsley's expression was unreadable. Percy Weasley was sitting behind Harry's heavy oak desk, in Harry's chair, looking with obvious distaste at the rather untidy piles of files, warrants, and intelligence reports.

"Good morning, Head Auror Potter," Percy said imperiously, somehow looking down his nose at Harry despite the fact that Harry was standing and he was seated. "We've been waiting; you are over five minutes late, but I suppose you can be forgiven...this time. Why don't you take a seat?"

Harry's eyes flashed as Percy gestured to the small, uncomfortable chair in front of the desk, which Harry normally used to interrogate wayward employees and guests. Only the fact that Harry liked the rest of the Weasleys a great deal kept Harry from cursing the bastard right then and there.

"I would, Madame Umb—sorry, I mean Weasley," Harry said cheerfully. Kingsley's cough sounded suspiciously like a barely-stifled snort of amusement. "But, you see Percy, you seem to have mistaken my seat for your own."

Percy's eyes narrowed and his face reddened as Harry continued, his voice growing colder with every word. "Your office is on the first floor, remember? If you like, I can have a few of _my_ Aurors escort you back there, in case you get lost." _Get the fuck out of my office, you pompous prick. _

Harry's implication was not lost on anyone in the room; everyone knew that when it came down to it, most of the Aurors were personally loyal to Harry...which made him a fairly powerful political force, even without his his Boy-Who-Lived fame. The tension in the room ratcheted up; Harry had preemptively turned what would have been a merely adversarial meeting into a hostile confrontation. _Fuck it, we were going there anyway._

"Head Auror Potter," Kingsley rumbled in his deep baritone. "I understand you have already met Herr Huber, from the Austrian Ministry of Magic?"

"_Hea__d__ Auror_ Potter?" Harry repeated, incredulous. _Is that how this is going to be, Kingsley? So be it. _"Yes, _Minister Shacklebolt,_"Harry bit off coldly, "Fritz and I met yesterday, _sir._"

Kingsley winced. _Yeah, I'm sorry too. Guess we're not quite the pals I thought we were, Shack. _The Minister opened his mouth—probably to apologize, or try to smooth things over—but he was interrupted by Huber.

"Mein name is _Franz_, Head Auror Potter," Huber corrected mechanically, speaking for the first time. "I believe zat I told you zat yesterday."

Harry glared at Kingsley in accusation. _I hunt and kill dark wizards for you, and this is what you bring me?_ The Minister, though knowing that the moment for smoothing things over had passed, at least had the grace to look apologetic before continuing.

"The Department of International Magical Cooperation has been working with the Austrian Ministry," the Minister said. "It turns out that Auror recruitment in most of the countries on the continent has been in a slump for several years, and the Austrians have run into a bit of a situation which may require more expertise than they currently have available within their own ranks."

"And that, Head Auror Potter, is where you come in," Percy interrupted. His expression of intense irritation had been replaced by one of smug triumph when Kingsley pulled rank on Harry, and now he was practically glowing. "Effective immediately, you are hereby assigned as Tactical Field Commander for International Magical Task Force 42, which is being stood up to investigate this specific case of potentially dark magic."

"Velcome aboard, TFC Potter," Huber said. "I vill be acting as Staff Kommandant for IMTF 42, as vell as ze liaison to ze Austrian and British magical governments."

Harry was, by this point, barely controlling his anger. His hand twitched, aching to draw his wand; only a supreme effort of will—on the level of throwing off Voldemort's Imperius Curse—was keeping him from blasting the smug smirk off of Percy Weasley's stupid, pompous face. He had enough presence of mind, though, to vaguely recall something that might get him out of this. Specifically, neither Percy nor Kingsley actually had the authority to reassign him; that authority rested solely with Harry's direct superior: Arthur Weasley.

"That's very interesting, Senior Undersecretary," Harry ground out through his clenched teeth. "Considering the fact that I don't see written orders to that effect signed by my immediate superior. You know, the Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He's a great guy, you probably don't know him, but his name is Arthur Weasley. Great family, too. They probably wouldn't like you very much, though."

Percy stiffened, and Harry had the satisfaction of watching Percy's face turn a brilliant shade of crimson. After briefly becoming a Weasley again during the Battle of Hogwarts, Percy had quickly returned to his old habits, and was once again at odds with the rest of his family. Now it was Percy whose hand was twitching for a wand, though he could not possibly be dumb enough to draw down on a man who made his living blowing away dark wizards. Harry's moment of triumph crumbled, though, when the Minister stood and silently handed Harry a single sheet of parchment. Shacklebolt looked horribly guilty, and Harry put it all together before he even read the first line.

As expected, it was a set of written orders, signed by one Percival Ignatius Weasley, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic and Acting Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. _God__fucking__dammit._

"So, _Minister,_" Harry murmured. Shacklebolt winced again. "Arthur wouldn't sign off on this, so you fired him and gave the whole department to Weatherby. You should get a bowler hat to go with this pile of sh—sorry, _fudge._"

Shacklebolt's head jerked back, as though he had been punched in the face. "Harry—"

"Don't worry, _Minister," _Harry hissed. "I'll do this fucking assignment, because apparently it's worth a good man's job. But when—sorry, _if_ I get back, you and I are going to have a very short fucking conversation about my future in the Ministry."

Shacklebolt opened his mouth to object, but he was once again interrupted by Franz's nerve-gratingly nasal voice.

"Ze details of your assignment are in a file on ze desk, TFC Potter," Huber piped in, ignoring the byplay. "I expect you to report to ze Austrian Ministry in Vienna with the assigned personnel by zero eight hundred tomorrow morning...and do _try_ to be on time. Lateness shall not be tolerated in my command."

With that, Franz Huber stood, bowed slightly to Percy and Kingsley, and squeezed past Harry (who had still not moved from his spot a few feet into the room) and out through the door. Percy stood as well, and followed Huber. Kingsley stayed behind.

"Harry, I'm sorry it went this way," the Minister began, his nerve beginning to fail him for the first time since he had last seen Voldemort in battle. Harry's glare had not abated; in fact, it seemed to have increased in intensity with only one person to focus on. "I told Arthur that he could have his job back tomorrow, but he refused."

"Well, imagine that," Harry snapped. "Will Percy remain as the Director of the DMLE? I know how those temporary assignments have a way of becoming not temporary."

"I don't know," Shacklebolt sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his face. Harry was almost sympathetic, knowing that only a huge amount of pressure could have driven Kingsley to this...but the fact that Harry was the one in the hot seat kept him focused on being angry at the man.

"If I survive this absurd death trap, and come back to find that he's still the Director, I swear I'll do everything I can to make sure I'm not the only Auror who walks," Harry swore, letting a little more anger seep into his voice. "And you know they'll follow."

"I'm sorry, Harry" Shacklebolt said quietly, after a long moment of silence.

"Not as sorry as I am," Harry replied sarcastically, not in any mood to be conciliatory. "Now, Minister, with all due respect, please leave me to my work. Apparently, I've got a lot to do. _Sir._"

* * *

_10:05 (Local), October 25, 2004  
__Office 201, Auror Headquarters, Ministry of Magic, London, UK_

"Dawlish, Robards, Williamson!" Harry's _sonorous_-amplified voiced boomed from within his office. "My office, now!"

Moments later, the three Aurors bustled into the room, looking apprehensive. The details of Harry's argument with Percy, Shacklebolt, and Huber had been heard by most of the office, and had quickly circulated to those who hadn't been nearby. They all knew that Harry hadn't left his office since then, which meant that he hadn't had a chance to go blow up half of the target range...which meant that he was probably still in a very dangerous mood.

"Robards," Harry said, looking up from a series of high-altitude photographs of what appeared to be a mountain range. "You were briefly Head Auror, after Scrimgeour left and before I came in. If I remember correctly, you did not enjoy it very much."

"That's correct, sir," Robards responded quickly and truthfully, hoping this wasn't going where he thought. Gawain Robards had hated being Head Auror—like Alastor Moody, he preferred working cases rather than engaging in the Ministry's political games (especially since the pay increase from Senior Auror to Head Auror only amounted to a few extra galleons per month), even though he was getting old enough that field work was starting to become fairly difficult. The fact that Harry managed to make his way into the field was an aberration for Head Aurors, and was made possible only by the fact that he was significantly more powerful than any of his subordinates, so he could make a legitimate case for leading from the front. "It was pretty terrible."

"I'm happy you think so," Harry said sarcastically. "Congratulations, you've been promoted to Acting Head Auror."

"Fuck," Robards swore. Being Head Auror was bad enough, but being a lame-duck _Acting_ Head Auror _and_ working directly under Percy Weasley? He would have preferred a posting at Nurmengard. "Can I quit?"

"No," Harry replied sternly, knowing that Robards had not really been joking—the man just had enough loyalty to the rest of the Aurors that he'd stick around if it meant that they wouldn't get stuck with a bad leader, but he _really_ didn't want the job. "Suck it up. If you're lucky, Percy will fire you and replace you with a ladder-climber. Then you'll get a severance package along with your pension."

"Gotta love the Ministry," Robards muttered. "_Fuck_."

"What about us?" Adam Williamson asked fearfully. The pony-tailed wizard knew that Harry tended to deliver good news first...and if _that_ was the good news (he knew that if he had been promoted, he would have _actually _quit, and the rest of the office be damned), then he didn't really want to hear what was in store for himself and Dawlish.

"Bad news," Harry said sympathetically, and handed them each a thin file. Dawlish and Williamson looked at each other, paling immediately. "Percy reassigned you both to IMTF 42. I'm the field commander, and that Austrian twat is our staff commander. The basic details of your assignment are in that file. My file was thicker, but if you read between the lines in yours...well, you'll realize that the bottom line is that this is not going to be a clean job. Thanks for volunteering, lads," Harry concluded in an obviously-fake cheerful tone.

Dawlish and Williamson had fought in both of Voldemort's wars; they were not new to the idea of being killed in the line of duty. However, that was when an enemy force was ravaging their own homeland. They were not going to be enthusiastic about risking their lives for...what, exactly? The rumors that had been flying around—based on the loud arguments in Harry's office yesterday and this morning—suggested that they were investigating something extremely dangerous in some random patch of ground that nobody really seemed to care about.

"Fuck," Dawlish and Williamson swore, in exactly the same tone that Robards had used only moments before. They looked at each other and nodded grimly—both men would be leaving work early today to go to Gringotts and update their wills.

"My thoughts exactly," Harry agreed. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll be leading from the front on this one."

"Gotta say, sir, it really doesn't," Dawlish grumped sourly. "Seeing as how we already knew you were leading from the front, since you always do."

"It can't be that bad," Robards declared hopefully. "I mean, what are the odds that some random patch of ground in the middle of the mountains _actually _has anything dangerous?"

Harry, Dawlish, and Williamson all groaned at the same time, and Robards winced as he realized what he had just said. Aurors are cops, and cops—especially those who literally deal with magic and the supernatural on a daily basis—are a superstitious lot. The three unlucky men glared at Robards, who shrugged apologetically.

"If there wasn't before, there is now," Williamson muttered darkly. "Thanks, asshole."

"I guess the undoubtedly-rampant rumors missed the detail about several IMTF teams—just like the one I've been voluntold to lead—that have failed to return from this exact assignment over the last six years," Harry responded dryly. "By now, the continental Ministries will have given it up for a bad job, so their Auror offices will just send their expendable dregs and political black sheep; meanwhile, Percy Weasley gets to cross off me and two Senior Aurors who might someday be political opponents, albeit reluctant ones, by sending us all on a suicide mission."

"Fuck," Robards whispered. "That's..._fuck._"

"Percy Fucking Weasley is murdering us, but since it's being done in the name of international magical cooperation, it's okay," Dawlish said sarcastically. "Welcome to the fucking Ministry of Magic."

"Yeah, pretty much" Harry, shaking off his comradely gloom and assuming a commanding tone. "But that's the job, so quit bitching. Robards, you and I are briefing the rest of the office regarding the handover in an hour; you have until then to prepare for your new job. Dawlish and Williamson, take the rest of the day off to get your shit together, and be at the Austrian Ministry of Magic in Vienna tomorrow morning at eight. Don't be late."

* * *

_23:11 (GMT), June 13, 1997  
__Restaurante Patagonia Sur, Buenos Aires, Argentina_

A spoon clattered down into a soup bowl.

The elderly wizard's head snapped down to his front left pocket, and seemingly of its own accord, his hand dug into his pocket. Moments later, his eyes locked onto a silver pin that had sat idle for over five decades. Ever since it had shut down on the morning after his Lord's apparent defeat, he had never, ever left it outside of his arm's reach. Before the infamous duel, his Lord had summoned his closest, most loyal, most powerful lieutenants, and supplied each of them with the details of _die __L__etzte Hoffnung, _a silver pin, and a map. And now the pin had reactivated; in the palm of his hand, before his very eyes, the triangle, circle, and line etched themselves back onto the pin's mirror-finished surface, forming his Lord's infamous symbol.

"I'd better go find zat map," he murmured to himself, getting up from the table. The waitress started to object—he hadn't even received the main course that he had ordered—but he tossed an over-large wad of bills onto the table, forestalling any conflict. He had much work to do, and likely precious little time.

* * *

_17:05 (Local), October 25, 2004  
__The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, UK_

With a resounding _crack _(Harry could apparate silently, but he generally felt it was more polite to announce himself on a social call like this), Harry appeared at the top of the hill overlooking the Burrow, the Weasley homestead. A short walk later, he had reached the front door, unimpeded by the impressively violent defensive wards that he and Bill Weasley had designed and raised five years ago.

Before he could knock, the door was flung open and a large reddish-orange blur shot out. For a brief, frantic instant, Harry battled with his own combat-honed reflexes, and barely managed to stop himself from drawing his wand and blowing up Molly Weasley as she collided with Harry and drew him into a bone-crushing embrace.

"Harry James Potter!" Molly half-squealed, half-screamed, still hugging him tightly. "How good of you to stop by!"

"Now, Molly, let the poor lad breathe," a genial voice called from inside the house. "It'd be a shame if you crushed him to death before you could stuff him full of this excellent dinner."

Wincing from the sound and impact, and gasping from the lack of air, Harry managed to extricate himself from Molly's clutches. He was blushing as he turned toward Arthur; Molly had always been an extremely physically-affectionate woman, but having his head practically shoved into her ample bosom was a bit much. Arthur chuckled and smiled knowingly from the doorway.

Harry had not come to the Burrow looking for a free meal, but he knew that Molly would be insulted if he didn't stay. Plus, he was a stereotypical bachelor, so most of his dinners were take-away or something he could slap on toast—there was no way he was going to turn down an actual home-cooked supper, especially considering the fact that he was preparing to go on what appeared to be a suicide mission into unknown territory. By unspoken agreement, the real subject of Harry's visit went unspoken until dinner was over, so the meal was dominated mostly by small-talk. Apparently, Ginny and her husband, Michael Corner, had been over the previous night; Molly made no attempt to hide her opinion that Ginny and Harry should have ended up together, but aside from some good-natured motherly fussing and a nearly painfully-full stomach, dinner was a pleasant affair.

Finally, Molly shooed Harry and Arthur into the sitting room.

"Anything to drink, before I go clean up?" she asked. "I know how much you love Madame Rosemerta's butterbeer, Harry, and we have some if you want it."

"Thank you, Molly," Harry said tiredly. "But I think this is a firewhisky sort of conversation."

Arthur, having seen the expressions that passed over Harry's face when Molly wasn't looking, was already pouring a generous amount of Ogden's Finest into two tumblers. He gave Molly a significant glance (one that said "this is a man-to-man sort of conversation"), and Molly retreated back to the kitchen. Arthur handed Harry a glass, and after a _clink_, both men took not-insignificant sips from their drinks.

"I wanted to apologi—" Harry began, before Arthur cut him off.

"No, none of that, Harry," Arthur interjected firmly. "It wasn't you who put me up against a wall. Honestly, I thought Kingsley was a better man than that, but watching him compromise himself was not enough reason for me to do the same. I'd rather be forced to retire as an honorable man, than keep working as a dishonorable one. Especially for you; this country owes you better treatment than that."

Not for the first time, Harry was moved by Arthur Weasley's words. Much of the magical community of Britain did not respect Arthur because of his obsession with all things technological. However, those who actually knew Arthur Weasley knew him for the steadfast bastion of morality and kindness that he was. In Harry's opinion, very few wizards could match Arthur Weasley's quality.

"In that case," Harry rejoined, nodding to concede the point (even though he still felt guilty), "I suppose that my thanks will have to suffice. Thank you, Arthur."

"You are welcome, Harry," Arthur replied warmly. The two were silent for a few moments, taking advantage of the calm before the storm—both knew that the rest of the conversation would be upsetting. Soon, both were looking at empty glasses, and Arthur refilled both before taking a deep breath and continuing the discussion.

"Who was it, in the end?" Arthur asked. He knew that there was no way Harry would have been able to avoid the assignment. There were simply too many people in the Ministry who would be willing or even eager to climb over Arthur to get the Director of the DMLE position, so it was almost guaranteed that Kingsley had found someone to sign off on those orders. There was one name, in particular, that Arthur desperately did not want to hear.

The sympathy written all over Harry's face was answer enough. "I'm sorry, Arthur," Harry admitted reluctantly. "It was Percy."

Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose. He wasn't surprised—he could imagine the scene all too easily—but it hurt nonetheless. He drained his full tumbler in one swallow, and he didn't bother blinking back the tears when he opened his eyes again.

"This may seem absurd to you, Harry," Arthur uttered slowly, his words slightly slurred (understandable, after two glasses of Ogden's Finest in rapid succession). "Especially since he went cold toward us again after Fred's funeral, but...Percy is my son, Harry. I wanted...I hoped that he would turn around, and come back to us. Molly was so proud that I resigned over those orders, Harry, and the fact that Percy jumped at the chance is going to break Molly's heart."

Harry didn't really know what to say to that. Honestly, if Percy had been anything but a Weasley, Harry probably would have challenged him to a duel, which, for a wizard of Harry's power, skill, and combat experience, would be effectively the same as just murdering the sniveling bureaucrat in the street (except, of course, that it would be perfectly legal). He simply shrugged and took a long, slow sip of his firewhisky, while Arthur eschewed his glass entirely and began taking swigs directly from the bottle.

Having delivered his family-shredding news (and not having anything helpful to say...what do you say to a good man trying to deal with a terrible disappointment for a son?), Harry now felt as though he had worn out his welcome, and stood up to leave. As he opened the door to the hallway, he turned back to the increasingly-drunk Weasley patriarch.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," he repeated, feeling cold and useless. "I never wanted...I wish it hadn't been him."

"Me too, son," Arthur replied dimly, clearly paying more attention to the bottle at this point, and thus missing the way Harry's eyes widened in shock at his words. "Try to make it home, Harry—we've already lost Fred, and now Percy, too, in a way...I don't know that we could survive outliving you, too."

Molly, perhaps having a sixth sense for her husband's disheartened condition, swept past Harry into the sitting room, pausing only to briefly hug Harry. Suddenly feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment—and wanting to be anywhere else when Arthur told Molly about Percy—Harry swiftly departed. He needed to get to bed early anyway; after all, tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

* * *

_22:58 (GMT), June 15, 1997  
__The New Belmoral Hotel, San Ignacio, Belize_

Eight men and five women stood silently around a large circular table. A muggle observer might peg them as being in their late fifties to early seventies, but a magical observer—knowing from the wands placed on the table in front of each that they were witches and wizards—would likely guess that their ages ranged from the mid-eighties to early hundreds. The oldest-looking wizard quietly placed a shiny silver pin on the table next to his wand, and the other dozen copied him. A moment later, he repeated the action, this time with a rolled-up map. Again, the others copied him.

The old man glanced around and nodded, apparently satisfied.

"So," he began in a deep, gravelly voice. His once-thick German accent had faded somewhat, but one look at his intense blue eyes showed that his fanaticism had not. "We are all still alive. We have all heard the call. We must all now prepare for _die letzte Hoffnung._"

"..._die letzte Hoffnung..." _the group chorused.

"Our Lord awaits!" the speaker continued, his voice rising in volume and his accent making itself heard. "It is now our time to reward our Lord's conviction with our continued faith!"

"..._die le__t__zte Hoffnung!" _the group chanted, much louder. The electric lights in the hotel room flickered from the power of the assembled wizards and witches, caught up as they were in the revitalized ecstasy and glory of their youth.

"On the stroke of midnight ending this day, we, our Lord's most faithful, shall return to the fatherland!" the speaker roared, red-faced, as spittle flew from his lips and his eyes blazed with almost religious fervor.

"_DIE LETZE HOFFNUNG!"_

* * *

**Author's Note**

_die letzte Hoffnung_= the Final Hope (via Google Translator—if it's wrong, feel free to correct me). Kind of Hitler-y, but less mass-murder-y and more "man I hope this works"-y...but still pretty Hitler-y.

There is going to be a very un-Rowling-like amount of dirty language in this story—remember, Harry is an Auror, and Aurors are cops/soldiers—that's how they speak, especially during stressful situations. Toss in the fact that Harry is fairly angry most of the time, and the Aurors are generally pretty disgruntled, and you'll be hard pressed to find a time when there aren't some "sentence enhancers" being thrown around. Expect occasional casual F-bombs.

As of 9/9/2014, I've edited the title of this story to "Harry Potter and the Labyrinth." This story has seen fairly poor view numbers, and I suspect that the shitty title may have been partly to blame (in addition to people being reluctant to start reading an in-progress story).

Review!


	4. Ascentions

Disclaimer: Standard stuff (I don't own anything, I won't be making profit, any resemblance to previously published content is purely coincidental, JK Rowling is the coolest, etc.). If I make any legal errors regarding copyrighted material, inform me and I will correct them immediately.

**Important Information**: This story is canon-compliant up to—**but not including**—the infamously-disappointing epilogue of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_.

**Harry Potter and the Labyrinth**

_19:56 (GMT), June 21, 1997  
__Die Festung, Wildspitze Peak, Austria_

Just as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, an unfortunate muggle mountaineer died, finally succumbing to the effects of blood loss from slashes in his wrists. Thirteen voices chanting in Latin swelled in a crescendo, before cutting off entirely, just as the light left the muggle's eyes.

The corpse was suspended above a massive white marble slab, which was laid out on the ground in front of the entrance to a dark cave. His blood had collected in the grooves that had been precisely etched with simple hand tools, and which formed a circle inscribed within a bisected triangle.

Thirteen cloaked and hooded figures strode into the entrance to the cave, which was cut far too cleanly to have occurred naturally. The last figure to walk through the opening made a trademark _swish-flick _motion with his wand, and the stone slab rose from the ground and blocked the entrance to the cave. The ritual, powered by thirteen of Grindelwald's strongest, most devoted followers and sealed by the sacrifice of a human life, had turned the stone slab into a nigh-impenetrable door. Only an equivalent sacrifice would open it. Thus protected, the thirteen members of _die letzte Hoffnung _got to work.

* * *

_08__:__01 (Local)__, __October 26__, __2004  
__Entrance Hall, Austrian Ministry of Magic, Vienna, Austria_

"You are late, Tactical Field Commander Potter."

"Good fucking morning to you too, Fritz," Harry shot back, barely suppressing a grin. Knowing that it would irritate Franz Huber, he had purposefully arrived exactly one minute late. Calling him Fritz was just kind of funny; when one is leading a suicide mission into the unknown, one takes laughs whenever possible.

"I have told you several times now, TFC Potter, that mein given name is _Franz_," the Austrian bureaucrat responded stonily. "You are ze last to arrive; at least your countrymen managed to make it here on time."

"Thanks for the sit-rep, Staff Commander Huber," Harry barked, in obvious parody. _Somewhere, Sirius is laughing. _"Hut-hut-hut, all soldiers accounted for, _sir!"_

Franz frowned, someone coughed nervously, and several of the assembled witches and wizards exchanged significant looks. Harry knew what they were thinking: if this was how their supposed leadership worked together, that didn't bode well for their chances at making it through this assignment.

"Vell, I suppose zat now zat ve are all here, I shall proceed to ze briefing," Franz announced in his trademark monotone. "As you are all avare, there has been—"

"Fritz, shut up," Harry interrupted loudly. Another round of significant glances was exchanged between the assembled Aurors; Dawlish and Williamson simply rolled their eyes. "Allow me to save us all a shitload of time. Did anyone _not_ read through their assignment folder?"

Harry held up the bland manilla folder that Percy and Franz had given him, which held the details of his assignment. Only silence answered his question.

"Good, I'll take that as a no, then," he said, nodding. "There you go, Fritz, everyone is already briefed. Go liaise with someone, command some staff, wank off to some paperwork, or do whatever the fuck it is you do when you aren't roping decent Aurors into shit assignments."

Franz scowled, but Harry narrowed his eyes; after a brief but intense staring contest, Franz realized that Harry wasn't joking, spun on his heel, and marched off to his office. _Bastard is probably going to go fire-call Percy to complain about me._

Harry looked at the group of Aurors that had been assigned to IMTF 42. His briefing packet had included brief dossiers for each Auror, but there was only so much about a person that could really be learned from ink and parchment. Reading between the lines, he had initially been given the impression that he had been stuck with a bunch of wash-outs and has-beens. However, looking at the group in person, it occurred to Harry that it was much more likely that they were simply victims of the internal politics of their respective ministries. They were probably quite capable at the job, just not all the other bullshit that went along with it. _Just like me. _After all, if they truly were incompetent or weak, they would not have survived long enough as Aurors to piss someone off enough to earn a suicide detail.

"I am Harry Potter, Head Auror of the British Ministry of Magic," Harry announced. "As our friend Herr Huber said, I am also the Tactical Field Commander of International Magical Task Force 42. Call me sir, boss, or Harry; I don't really care either way. My job is to try to get as many of you home as I can, and your job is make my job as easy as possible. Go around and introduce yourselves...you start."

Harry pointed to a tall and balding man, whose bearing was strikingly reminiscent of Arthur Weasley, though his bifocals reminded Harry of the man depicted on the American $100 bill.

"I am Richard Bonhomme," he said with a moderate French accent. "From ze Ministère de la Magie."

"Astrid Roux," the next Auror in line, a fairly butch-looking Frenchwoman, called out. True to her name, she had red hair, though it was cropped close.

Dawlish and Williamson went next, and the rest of the Aurors quickly introduced themselves as well. Dieter Fleischer turned out to be a humorless-looking, stone-faced German with the last two fingers missing from his left hand; his fellow German, Ava Falk, was a young, buxom, blond-haired, blue-eyed goddess of a woman from Bavaria who would not have looked out of place in an Oktoberfest dirndl with a foamy mug of beer in each hand. Mario Orsini was a short, stocky, shockingly hairy Italian with intelligent brown eyes. Dominique "Dom" Van der Beek was an attractive Belgian woman with long brunette hair tied back into a braid. There were also four Austrians (apparently, it had been decided that since they were the "home team," they should contribute the most warm bodies); Ernst and Edwin Riese were tall, muscular, heavily-bearded "mountain man" twins, Gertrude Schlusser was a petite, athletic woman whose looks were marred somewhat by a thick, ropy scar running from her left cheek down to her throat, and Klaus "The Fox" Voss was a pale, slender man with clever, sparkling blue eyes.

Including Harry, that made thirteen Aurors—three Brits, two Frogs, one Italian, one Belgian, two Germans, and four Austrians. _Goddammit, the stupid, superstitious idiots! _In typical wizarding fashion, the undoubtedly-pureblooded bureaucrats who had cooked up IMTF 42 (namely, Franz Huber, Percy Weasley, and whatever other idiots the other ministries had contributed) had decided to go with a "powerful magical number" of Aurors. Of course, with an odd number—and a prime number, at that—it would be impossible to break the unit into equal-sized squads.

Worse, in Harry's opinion, was the fact that "they" hadn't been able to convince the Americans to join in on the mission. True to their reputation, American Aurors (or "Special Agents," in American parlance) were not shy about using firearms, or even calling in literal heavy artillery, to get the job done. As in the UN and NATO, the ICW's military forces had been lead by the Americans for the last several decades, mostly due to their willingness (often even eagerness) to use their nonmagical forces and weapons to augment their magical capabilities. Their magical law enforcement officers were organized within the FBI's Magical Investigation Bureau division (or MIB—the release of the science-fiction movie _Men In Black_ had been a masterstroke, as now nobody would believe anyone who came forward about government agents making people forget things with sticks that flashed with light). The MIB agents were notorious for being perfectly happy to blast away at the bad guys with every weapon that the modern non-magical world had to offer (as well as spells that would get them thrown in prison in other countries), often choosing to kill with guns rather than capture with wands. Apparently, in America, the paperwork was easier that way.

Conversely, most European ministries—caught up in the romance of being Magical with a Capital M—failed to realize that non-magical methods were often the right tools for the job; thus, very few European ministries permitted their Aurors to carry firearms. Unfortunately, the MIB wanted nothing to do with this mission. As far as they were concerned, it was a problem that the European ministries had created for themselves by "forgetting" about the territory in question, and they could damn well solve it themselves; the Americans were too busy with more pressing issues, like countering their many enemies swarming out of the Middle East. _So I've got a bunch of expendable political black sheep, and no bloody guns to back us up. Brilliant._

"Brilliant," Harry said laconically, flipping open his folder and picking out the most important maps. "Well, I'm sure we're all _volunteers_ for this mission, so everyone already knows what the details are, but now that Fritz is gone, we might as well go over all the information we have anyway. Pick a seat and settle in, because we're going to do this right—if we're lucky, that might mean we all come back in one piece."

Several of the Aurors nodded appreciatively, and a few others breathed sighs of relief—Harry's previous flippant attitude had not inspired much confidence, but knowing that they were going to have a thorough, serious briefing to plan out the mission went a long way toward reassuring them of Harry's competence.

"Okay, let's start from the beginning. The area of operations is located..."

* * *

_07:13 (GMT), January 19, 1998  
__Die Festung, Wildspitze Peak, Austria_

"It is nearly complete," the elderly, bespectacled man said, standing up straight and adjusting his white lab coat. He looked like a typical kindly old family physician, and in fact he had used that occupation as a cover for the last several decades after fleeing his infamous castle in Europe in the wake of his master's apparent fall. "Now, all there is to do is wait."

"Good work, Wolfric," Hans Faust, who had been first among Grindelwald's lieutenants, commended the other aging wizard. "Our master will be greatly pleased with your efforts."

Wolfric Nickolaus Stein—more commonly known as "Wolfenstein"—had spent the last several decades hiding in South America like the rest of the group, and was perhaps the most vital member of _die letzte Hoffnung. _Each of Grindelwald's greatest lieutenants had been powerful and knowledgeable, but Stein—with the help of an insane muggle named Mengele—had delved more deeply into necromancy than any wizard alive, save perhaps Grindelwald himself. Without Stein, it would have taken the other twelve mages _years_ to do what he had accomplished in only a few months.

"_Danke_, Herr Faust," Stein replied gratefully, gazing proudly around the laboratory filled with bubbling potions, assorted ingredients, and body parts. One corner of the room was taken up by a huge blood iron cauldron, in which an incandescently-glowing potion simmered, throwing off glittering sparks at seemingly random intervals. It would stay that way for some time. "It is good to be doing my true work once more."

* * *

_09__:__2__1 (Local)__, __October 2__7__, __2004  
__Wildspitze Peak, Austria_

Harry began snapping commands in a harsh whisper the instant the portkey deposited IMTF 42 onto solid ground.

"Disillusionment charms, now! Alfa, form up on me. Bravo, left flank at twenty meters; Charlie, right flank at twenty meters; Delta, rear guard at thirty meters. All teams maintain at least ten meter spacing at all times. Go!"

Harry slipped on the ancient Cloak of Invisibility while the other members of IMTF 42 disillusioned themselves—it was a standard procedure for after a portkey drop. Unfortunately, the portkeys caused interference with disillusionment charms; otherwise, they would have all applied the charms beforehand.

His other commands were obeyed immediately, as well. Despite the group's initial uncertainty regarding their field commander (given his youth and his fairly unprofessional disagreement with the staff commander), Harry had conducted an extremely thorough briefing, and his combat reputation was already well-known in certain circles. Alfa team (Bonhomme, Schlusser, and Falk) lined up behind Harry. Bravo (Dawlish, Orsini, and Van der Beek) hustled off to the left, while Charlie (Williamson, Voss, and Roux) moved to the right and Delta (Fliescher and the Riese twins) slunk back to guard the rear.

While the rest of IMTF 42 got into position, Harry took a few seconds to examine his surroundings—aerial photos were great, but they couldn't compare to having boots on the ground. They were on the rocky south summit of Wildspitze Peak, which was a dual-summit mountain (also including a slightly-lower fern-covered north summit). There was almost no tree cover on the south approach, but there were numerous boulders and rocky outcroppings up ahead, making the location almost perfect for an ambush. If there was any resistance, IMTF 42 would literally be caught out in the open and fighting an uphill battle against an enemy with the high ground...all in all, not the ideal situation for a lightly-armed investigative force.

The intelligence reports suggested that their target location was at the top of the south summit, approximately 3,770 meters above sea level. The portkeys had landed IMTF 42 on the approach to the south summit, with roughly a kilometer of hiking between them and the objective. Huber had originally planned to have the portkeys deposit IMTF 42 directly at the objective, but Harry had flatly refused, calling it "insanity at best" to portkey directly into a target location with unknown dangers; plus, the previous teams had all done just that, and had all failed to return. When the rest of IMTF 42 agreed vocally, Huber had "generously deferred to TFC Potter's preference, even though it may lead him to be an overcautious—." Harry's baleful gaze and already-drawn wand had stopped Huber short of calling Harry a coward, and Huber had beat yet another hasty retreat, effectively giving Harry free reign over the mission.

With Alfa team at his back, Harry slowly and silently stalked forward, casting detection charms on every rock, twig, nook, and cranny. He quietly swore as his very first spell detected anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards—IMTF 42 had been able to portkey in, but the only way out would be to hike out of the warded area; based on the strength of the wards at this spot, he estimated that they would extend roughly another kilometer down-slope. There would be no quick escape from this mission. The rest of the teams were doing the same, with the leader casting charms and the others watching out for incoming spellfire. The Aurors were taking so much caution that it took nearly an hour to cover the first hundred meters. Harry invoked a significant amount of willpower to keep impatience from overwhelming his hard-learned wariness, and he dismissed a few requests from his Aurors to reduce their caution level and "get a move on."

After another twenty meters, though, Harry's obsessive Moody-style vigilance was vindicated. Only Harry's slew of detection charms gave Harry an indication of the threat ahead, and he reflexively threw up the most powerful shield he could cast.

"SHIELDS!" Harry bellowed. "HIT THE DECK! INCOMING!"

Harry's warning came not a moment too soon. Apparently, the string of boulders ahead had been enchanted into what essentially amounted to massive magical proximity mines. Harry's "overcautious" use of detection charms had given him a precious extra few seconds of warning, but thankfully, it was enough. Each Auror dropped to the ground, and shields flashed into place only moments before a wave of dark purple flames—not Fiendfyre (as Fiendfyre was notoriously finicky as a defensive ward), but the next closest thing—washed over their position. Without Harry's warning, it was likely that IMTF 42 would have perished _en masse_; as it was, however, each Auror was capable of producing a strong enough shield to resist the attack. This pleasantly surprised Harry, as he was fairly certain that only about half of the British Auror Office would have been capable of shielding against that blast of cursed flame.

The inferno lasted for several seconds before dissipating into a noxious purple mist as the defenses ran out of energy. Each Auror immediately cast a Bubble-Head Charm, assuming that the fumes were toxic, while Harry and Bonhomme cleared the mist away with conjured gusts of wind. Harry carefully re-checked the boulders, ensuring that the enchantments that had powered the purple flames had exhausted themselves, before signaling the rest of IMTF 42 to move forward.

* * *

_00:56 (GMT), March 15, 1998  
__Tower 11, Cell 38, Nurmengard Prison, Zugspitze Peak, Germany_

"Kill me, then!" the prisoner demanded, projecting an air of desperate defiance to hide his excitement. _All those years of waiting, finally, finally finally! This pretender will strike me down and the plan will finally move to the next stage! __It will work, it must work! _"You will not win, you cannot win! That wand will never, ever be yours—"

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

Voldemort took no notice of the fact that the expression on the corpse's face was not one of fear or horror...but then again, Voldemort wouldn't recognize what hope looked like, anyway.

* * *

_13__:__59__ (Local)__, __October 2__7__, __2004  
__Wildspitze Peak, Austria_

IMTF 42 passed through two additional layers of nearly-fatal defenses before finally reaching the summit. An hour after the magical mines, the Aurors were confronted by a line of banshees chained to the ground and apparently compelled to scream at intruders. Once again, Harry's paranoia justified itself by providing enough warning that the Aurors were able to cast silencing spells. Once the threat of the banshees' wail had been defeated, it was only a matter of striking down each relatively defenseless banshee before moving on. Like the wave of cursed flame, the line of banshees was powerful enough to kill large numbers of enemies all at once (especially if they were surprised), but relatively straightforward to counter for a small, skilled strike force.

The other layer of defenses, however, was both powerful and flexible—three packs of hellhounds (not just mutated or transfigured dogs or wolves, but _actual hellhounds!_) swarmed the Aurors just before they reached the summit. Much more intelligent than wolves, the hellhounds were able to recognize that Alfa team was the greatest threat, and instead began by attacking the other three teams. Though not truly invisible, the hellhounds were naturally disillusioned, making their movements extremely difficult to track; nearly as bad, their fur was razor-sharp and as hard as steel, causing significant wounds just by crashing into their prey while simultaneously providing wide-range resistance to most incoming magic.

Mario Orsini went down in the first pass, screaming in pain—he had managed to protect his throat, but at the cost of shoving his left forearm into the attacking hellhound's mouth. The beast still tackled him, roasting the flesh of his arm with its flaming breath even as its powerful jaws crushed the bones to powder. Van der Beek blasted the beast off of her teammate, only to have most of the skin on her right leg torn off by a near miss from another hellhound.

"_Expecto patronum!" _Harry cried out. He didn't know much about hellhounds (other than the fact that they were rare and deadly), but he figured a patronus might be able to do something to help; many of the rules that applied to other spells did not seem to affect patroni, so he was hopeful that the positive energy would be able to bypass the spell resistance of the hellhounds. It turned out that he was right, as the blazing argent stag slammed antlers-first into a hellhound, leaving massive punctures in the beast's flank and making it flicker into full visibility. Dark, steaming, lava-like blood oozed from the wounds of the suddenly-visible hellhound, and it managed to stagger a few steps before collapsing.

Harry's patronus wheeled around and began to attack the other hellhounds, which were suddenly afraid of the blazing stag. The rest of the Aurors immediately followed Harry's example (Ava Falk's blazing falcon was particularly impressive, striking with nearly the strength and speed of Harry's stag), and within moments the attack had been broken, and the hellhounds were on the retreat. Not content to allow any of the hyper-dangerous beasts to remain alive on the mountain, Harry and the Aurors commanded their patroni to chase the retreating hellhounds, and then paused to tend to their wounded as the pained howls and yelps faded into the distance.

It turned out that only Alfa had escaped injury. Dieter Fleischer in Delta had received moderate burns on his neck and face (reminding Harry of Cedric Diggory after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament), and Williamson in Charlie had taken a bite to his left thigh. Bravo was hit the hardest; Dom had burns and severe cuts on her leg, and Orsini was barely conscious. Harry was no healer, but it was obvious even to him that Orsini was going to lose his left arm from the elbow down. What flesh remained was blackened and flaking off, and the bones were shattered so badly that it would be impossible to vanish and regrow all of the fragments. Worse, his hand was so mangled from being ripped from the hellhound's maw that it was almost unrecognizable as a human hand—the palm was torn to shreds and only one finger remained, and even that was crushed, cooked, and bent.

"Dom, Mario." Harry said, breaking the silence. _Time to be a leader. _"You two are hurt badly, but it's possible that with an hour or so, we can fix you up enough to continue. Or, you can get back to the egress point and use your emergency portkeys—that's about three hours of hiking, through unsecured territory, to get past the wards. We all know that one or two wounded men going down this mountain won't survive ten minutes, and I can't spare anyone to escort you. That said, I won't stop you. Your choice."

"I'll stay, boss," Van der Beek said. She agreed with Harry's assessment—they didn't know for certain that all of the hellhounds had been hunted down, and there could very well be other hazards that they simply had bypassed on their way up. Going back alone or even with a partner would be suicide.

Harry nodded, as the Belgian woman began healing her injuries with the help of two other Aurors. "Good. Mario?"

The Italian—who had slugged down a pain potion as soon as the fighting had ended—gazed up at Harry. His expression was difficult to read, between the pain potion's numbness and the wound's pain, but it was clear that Orsini was barely holding it together. "I don't see how this can be fixed out here, sir," he said mournfully. As far as he was concerned, this injury had killed his career and permanently changed his life, even if he somehow survived this mission. "We all know that I'm losing this arm."

"That's true," Harry said gently. "But I've learned a few things over the years. Williamson, use a blade, not magic—it will make the repair easier."

Williamson handed Orsini a conjured leather strap to bite down on, and then drew the large Bowie knife that he habitually wore on his hip. Orsini laid his left arm out onto the wooden block that Van der Beek had quietly conjured for this purpose, looked away, and bit down hard on the leather strap. Thankfully, the pain potion numbed his healthy flesh as well as the wound, and Orsini only grunted, more from distress than discomfort, when the heavy blade slammed into the wooden block. Williamson had made his cut just below the elbow, and the severed, mutilated limb hit the ground with splash of blood and a muffled _thud._

Harry holstered his holly wand and drew the wand that Tom Riddle had received from Ollivander. He had seen Riddle perform this spell for Wormtail, and he figured it might be easier to use the same wand.

"_Partum argenti manu,_" Harry intoned, swishing Riddle's wand in a vague outline of a hand. As he finished the spell, a shapeless blob of what appeared to be molten silver streaked down onto Orsini's bleeding stump, cauterizing the wound and forming itself into a forearm and hand. The Italian Auror's eyes widened in surprise as the pain disappeared and he suddenly had a hand again. Orsini smiled as he wiggled his fingers. The rest of IMTF 42 exchanged looks, clearly impressed by Harry's skill—he wasn't about to ruin it by telling them that he had learned this particular spell from Voldemort, or that he could make the hand choke Orsini to death if he so chose.

"Thank you, sir," Mario said, grinning widely. "I'm in."

The teams re-formed, buoyed by Orsini's successful recovery and the fact that they had had enough time to heal (or at least stabilize) the other wounds. Though the international team members barely knew each other, they already felt a certain kinship as Aurors, and now that everyone was back in fighting shape, they were ready to move on with the mission.

That sentiment was dulled somewhat only a few minutes later, though, when they reached the summit and came upon a cave, with the entrance blocked by a huge white door made of marble. There was a dark, ominous feeling in the air, and the mark of the Deathly Hallows engraved into the stone door sent shivers down Harry's spine. The rest of the Aurors—hailing from continental nations—knew it as Grindelwald's mark, and blanched at the sight of the door; as terrible as Voldemort had been in Britain, Grindelwald had arguably been worse on the continent, and even six decades later his mark had a way of chilling continental wizards and witches to the bone.

Harry continued his practice of casting detection spells, this time directed at the stone door, while the rest of IMTF 42 took up positions to catch anything that came out of the cave in a cross-fire. Harry immediately noted and discounted a fairly strong compulsion charm woven into the door's protections—for a wizard who could throw off Voldemort's Imperius Curse, that compulsion was little more than an itch—and suddenly felt something very familiar about the protections spelled into the door..._the seaside cave! _

In a flash, Harry recalled the night that he and Albus Dumbledore had gone to the dark, inferi-filled seaside cave, hoping to find one of Voldemort's horcruxes. Dumbledore had had to slice open his hand and smear his blood on the stone door in order to open it—a slight sacrifice, but one that would appease Voldemort's massive ego. _But this spell seems much, much stronger..._

Then, Harry snapped out of his reminiscence as another tidbit of information clicked in his head.

_The compulsion charm._

It was like a siren's call, and the door's blood ward was the rocky shore.

True to his reputation, John Dawlish—though a veteran of both of Voldemort's wars—was ensnared by the compulsion charm laced into the stone door. Harry spun around just in time to scream "No, Dawlish!" before the older mad pressed his right hand against the cold surface of the stone door.

"John, get back!" Harry cried out, to no avail, and he didn't dare use any active magic to pull Dawlish away. The rest of the Aurors, suddenly realizing that Dawlish had fallen victim to the compulsion charm, began shouting as well...until their shouts turned to screams.

A few seconds after touching the door, Dawlish began to convulse violently. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his mouth opened in a silent scream—once again, Harry was reminded of his school days; this time, he remembered when Katie Bell had nearly been killed by Draco Malfoy's cursed necklace in his botched attempt to assassinate Dumbledore. Unlike Katie, though, Dawlish grew steadily paler and began to shrivel up, as though the blood was being sucked from his body...which it was.

As Dawlish stood there, rooted in place by the power of the compulsion that he could not overcome, the deep grooves in the surface of the stone door began to fill with crimson fluid. After nearly two agonizing minutes, Dawlish's blood filled up the entire symbol, and Dawlish's body fell to the ground—he had died of blood loss about a minute before, but the door did not stop until his body was drained entirely.

As Dawlish fell, the blood-filled triangle and circle burned black, and then the line which bisected them both blazed scarlet and extended up and down to the full height of the door, cutting it neatly in half. With a low, grinding rumble, the two halves of the door slid open, revealing a tunnel utterly devoid of light—even the sun's rays seemed to stop at the threshold.

The twelve remaining Aurors stood silently before the body of their fallen comrade, and a fell wind howled out from within the dark cave, as though the mountain itself was crowing in savage triumph at Dawlish's horrible death. Harry stared into the cave, and steadily, deliberately drew the Elder Wand.

* * *

_00:56 (GMT), March 15, 1998  
__Die Festung, Wildspitze Peak, Austria_

Steam billowed out of the blood iron cauldron, and thirteen voices sang out as one in a language that had gone unspoken since the war-wizards of Alexander the Great shattered the Etemenanki, the stronghold of Marduk (a true Dark Lord who had ruled ancient Babylon in the guise of an immortal god). The fall of the Etemenanki had inspired the biblical tale of the Tower of Babel, and a great spell powered by Marduk's true and final death at Alexander's own hand had scoured this dire speech from the minds and tongues of mankind...except a young acolyte named Herpo (later known as "Herpo the Foul," for this very reason) had preserved the entirety of his knowledge of the language in a pensieve and retrieved it after Alexander's spell had run its course.

Suddenly, the chanting stopped, overtaken by a thunderous silence. The steam ceased its hissing, and the cauldron rang out like a bell tolling a death knell before it shattered outwards.

A gasp of breath echoed flatly in the darkness. Thirteen elderly mages fell to their knees as a low chuckle bloomed into wild, youthful laughter.

* * *

**Author's Note**

So you may have noticed that this chapter is about three weeks later than anticipated. That is because my computer shit the bed, and I lost this chapter and the next one. The loss of over 10K words was a devastating blow to my morale, so I took a brief hiatus from this story and whipped up my first one-shot, _Harry Potter and the Unforgivable Tournament_. I think it turned out fairly well; you should read it, review it, and tell me how awesome it is. Anyway, now I'm back to working on this story, so hopefully I'll be able to update with some reasonable facsimile of regularity.

Ben Franklin was a notorious ladies-man while stationed in France as an ambassador, and his _Poor Richard's Almanac _was published in France under the name _Les Maximes du Bonhomme Richard_. It just might be that the Frenchman here is a descendant. Or maybe it's a coincidence. Who knows.

Wolfric Nickolaus Stein (Wolfenstein) is reprising his role from _Harry Potter and the Lightning Scar. _In _HPatLS, _Wormtail had to hunt down and murder Stein (off-screen) to steal the blood iron cauldron to resurrect Voldemort; however, this story is canon-compliant, which means Wormtail used a stone cauldron. Thus, in this universe, Stein is still alive.

I'm using the NATO phonetic alphabet for the Auror-speak/jargon. That's why it's spelled "Alfa," rather than "Alpha." _Die Festung_ = "The Fortress."


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